


I Walked the Path You Set Before Me

by Arumattie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Dorian/Rilienus but not as a major focus of the story, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 16:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arumattie/pseuds/Arumattie
Summary: Dorian was five when he first set the curtains on fire.





	I Walked the Path You Set Before Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edibleflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/gifts).



> For edibleflowers. Thank you for getting me into this game and fandom (regardless of how belated it may have been), encouraging my love of Dorian, cheerleading me to finish this thing, and helping me through some of very rough times these past few months. This one is for you. ♥

Dorian was five when he first set the curtains on fire.

He’d sworn that it was an accident when his nanny had run out of the room screaming, but his father need only give him a single glance to know that this had been planned in advance to catch the master of House Pavus as he walked by. Halward had put out the flames with a simple wave of the hand and then admonished his son, though his eyes gleamed with pride.

Oh, yes, that raw talent was worthy of a Pavus.

Though his nanny had fussed over the mess, muttering about having to replace all of the curtains now, and fluttered about his person angrily, Dorian couldn’t remember a happier day in his life. Not only had he gotten to see his father outside of mealtime, but Halward Pavus had been _proud_ of his son.

Aquinea had been equally delighted when she found out during dinner what had happened: her lips lifted a little at the corners and the fine crease in her brow was a little lighter. She had, of course, reprimanded him and warned him to be careful with his newfound abilities, but the set of her shoulders was a little lighter from then on.

After all, it meant that this union between the esteemed Houses of Pavus and Thalrassian had been successful.

It also meant that she didn’t have to trouble herself with bedding her husband again; she was free to pursue affairs of her own, free of guilt. Their child was a mage—a gifted one at that, they didn’t doubt—and their duty in the marriage was done; the two of them could go about their mutual loathing in peace, forever isolated in opposite corners of the Pavus estate.

Still, Dorian was happy for the time being. He’d made his parents proud, and he was a _mage_.

Having grown up surrounded by the splendor of magic, Dorian could not wait until he started to learn how to harness his newfound power, and he had been beyond delighted when his father said that he would send word to the most prestigious Circles to see who would have the _honor_ of teaching the scion of House Pavus.

Dorian had puffed out his small chest at the thought and grinned, eyes bright, at Halward. Long fingers ruffled his hair, and it would be the last time his father would smile at his son for many, many years.

***

“It was for the honor of House Pavus, papa,” Dorian said, chin lifted and eyes defiant. The boy was still in his Circle robes, dusty though they were from travel; he’d just been sent back to the Pavus estate after being expelled for injuring another boy in a duel.

Halward stared at his nine year old son and shook his head.

“And by partaking in this ‘duel,’ you besmirched the family name,” he replied, his lips pressed into a thin line. Dorian did not understand, and his expression, completely and utterly open, reflected this. Though his magical abilities far outstripped his age, his mentality was still that of a child. He had been picked on, so had it not made sense to fight back?

The Pavus family were a proud bunch, and Dorian would not stand aside, not when he knew he was the better and stronger mage. It did not matter that the boy was a good three years older than him, and the surname was of little consequence. They had dueled, and he had beaten the other boy. Why was his father upset?

“But I _won_!” he reiterated, as if this would make a difference. “I bested him fairly, and they left me alone. They didn’t laugh at me anymore.”

“You are to be better than them, Dorian. You leave those beneath you at your feet—you do not _stoop_ to their level.” His father sighed, and Dorian could already tell that he was going to be dismissed. Throughout the journey back home, he had thought his father would stand by him, that Halward would choose _his_ side.

“I’m sorry for disappointing you, papa,” he said, his voice quavering and his eyes bright with unshed tears. Dorian’s hands balled into fists at his sides, but he told himself that he wouldn’t cry—not in front of his father at least.

“I’ll send for your old tutor to continue your studies while we find another Circle for you to join.”

And that was that.

Halward turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, not even deigning to wave his son off. Dorian muttered a quiet, “Yes, papa,” before slipping out of the room. The door clicked shut quietly behind him, and Dorian managed to march back to his rooms without shedding a tear—and, to his relief, without passing a soul.

As soon as he was in the safety of his own bedroom, Dorian stripped out of his Circle robes, leaving them in a pile on the floor; there was no point in putting them up after all.

He frowned at the sun outside and flopped onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow. Dorian would allow himself tears this time: he told himself that he’d cry them all out now so that he wouldn’t have to worry about them ever again.

***

At the age of thirteen, Dorian was in his third Circle and had gone through two tutors in the meantime.

It wasn’t so much that he was a bad student—on the contrary, Dorian _excelled_ at his studies, and since starting his schooling early, he’d never lost that lead on his classmates. His teachers had to admit that it didn’t seem like he really applied himself enough, but the rub was this: Dorian was hellishly bored in a classroom. His education didn’t challenge him enough, which made him seem indolent. 

And the bullying? The bullying still hadn’t stopped.

Oh, Dorian made it a point to try and follow his father’s instructions now—had been trying to do so since he’d been ousted from Carastes Circle—but it was tiresome, to say the least. Each time, his fellow students, all older than him, would ostracize him; no one liked the child who was younger and yet held far more magical might and prowess than anyone else in the room, save, perhaps, the instructor. They would jeer and call him names; they would belittle him and taunt him—never approaching him with fewer than three on their side though.

They were afraid of him; it was all too easy for Dorian to tell.

So, he kept to himself and tried to focus on his lessons, which did nothing to hold his interest. The days bled into one another until one sunny morning a boy named Renatus transferred into the Circle. He was different from the other children there, or so Dorian had thought: if nothing else, Renatus actually _spoke_ to Dorian; Renatus smiled at him and seemed to genuinely enjoy his company.

His pedigree and his magical abilities left something to be desired, but oh, Dorian loved the fact that there was at last someone who was willing to speak to him and was willing to _befriend_ him. The idea, honestly, seemed so foreign to him that it took him a while to realize just what this relationship had started to morph into. After all, it simply began as two outcasts banding together to turn something tedious into something a little easier to bear.

As time passed, Dorian started to develop other… _feelings_ for Renatus—feelings he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with.

He still liked being in his friend’s company, but Dorian found himself focusing on different things now while they were together. He noticed the length of Renatus’ eyelashes, the way the sunlight caught in his eyes; Dorian took in the softness of his hair and the curl of his lips when he smiled. He liked it when Renatus laughed, his cheeks flushing with joy and his laughter filling Dorian with delight.

In a secluded part of the Circle library, Dorian kissed him one rainy afternoon.

When asked, Dorian couldn’t really give a reason as to why the impulse took over him. After all, he’d never kissed anyone in the past, but it just seemed _right_ at that moment. Renatus had been talking about a spell that he’d been having trouble weaving in class, his brow creased in thought.

It was the briefest brush of lips against lips, but the second that Dorian pulled back, he knew that he’d done something wrong. Renatus was staring at him like he’d grown a second head, and while he didn’t say anything hurtful, his hasty retreat struck a blow far worse. Renatus started to avoid him from then on, and a little over a week later, he vanished, supposedly transferred to another Circle to complete his education.

A month later, he received a letter from his mother, admonishing him for his behavior, and though the small scroll of parchment never mentioned a particular transgression, Dorian knew exactly what it was that she spoke of. After Renatus’ reaction, he didn’t exactly need an adult to tell him that his decision to kiss another boy wasn’t exactly _acceptable_.

Which was fine.

It would just be another thing he had to fix in order to appease his family. The list of his apparent problems, of course, only seemed to grow longer with every passing year, and it was, by now, not a surprise that his father withdrew him from the Circle, intent on placing him somewhere else—somewhere that hadn’t heard of the problem prone Pavus boy.

***

Certain vices, Dorian learned, were more readily accepted by Tevinter society than others.

In his never-ending quest to please his parents, he had taken to being quite miserable, and his misery, apparently, rather enjoyed the company of a stiff drink—or, rather, several stiff drinks. It numbed his mind and made everything a little more bearable, and while he didn’t particularly have fond memories of the individual who introduced him to alcohol, Dorian _was_ thankful for the peace that a drink could bring him.

The problem was this: Dorian could not stop himself from liking men.

He had tried, desperately, to change himself since the day he’d kissed Renatus, but his eyes never found the curves of a woman to be pleasing; his attention inevitably went back to men. When he touched himself, he’d tried to imagine soft breasts and wet folds, only for the mental image to shift and morph until he had two fingers inside of himself as he imagined a hard cock pressing into him.

As he grew older and the number of his bed partners increased, his parents became increasingly frustrated with him; he wouldn’t be continuing the Pavus line if he persisted with this sort of behavior. It didn’t seem to matter that he was still excelling in his classes, that his talents had started to outstrip that of his instructors; even the fact that he continued to be thrown from one Circle to the next could not stop his growth as a mage, but so few seemed to notice that.

He was still that troublesome Pavus boy to many, though his reasons for lashing out had changed over the years. Bullying due to his age had been exchanged for mocking comments about his sexuality, and considering how the very people making fun of him often had been the ones to _bed_ him some time before?

Well, it had only seemed appropriate to set their pants on fire.

Dorian had grown up to be devastatingly handsome (gorgeous, beautiful, stunning—all words used to describe him in the bedroom but nowhere else), and he wore his looks, charm, and wit like armor, teasing and flirting his way through harsh barbs and unkind words. He smiled under circumstances where he had wanted to yell and scream, and it was only in the quiet of his private quarters that he would shed his mask and allow the weight of disappointment to bring him down. He would then drink until he forgot everything and passed out in his bed.

The years ticked by, and things never got any better. At the age of nineteen, Dorian was spending more time drunk than he was sober, though he hid his inebriation very well. He was still all smiles and good spirits, flirtatious words and knowing winks. Armed with a strong drink, it looked like he would somehow manage, but in the end, it would always be his family that would find the gap in his armor, dealing him a critical blow.

Halward Pavus had come to visit his son, unannounced, to check upon the boy’s progress, given that this most recent Circle was costing the family more than any others prior to it. It wasn’t a sign of financial strain on the family, no, but it _was_ a clear indicator that Halward was running out of schools to place his child.

Of course, his father’s timing could not have been any worse, and Dorian was caught with his pants down, quite literally, as one of the servants fucked him hard enough that the bed shifted with every thrust. So lost was he in the sensation that it wasn’t until the servant had run out of the room, hurriedly stuffing himself back into his pants, that he whined and looked over his shoulder, only to find his father standing there, more livid than he’d ever seen him.

The following day, he ran away from the Circle, intent on getting fucked and drinking himself into such a stupor that he would forget the look on Halward’s face.

Dorian lost track of how much time he ended up spending in the elven slums, taking easy pleasures wherever he could and with whomever would have him. By the time Gereon Alexius found him, it was a surprise that the magister even recognized him. 

Especially given that the man had found him passed out in bed with an elf, a bottle of wine, and nothing else.

Dorian eventually woke to find the elf and the wine gone, and he now had a dirty sheet pulled over him. He let it slide to his waist as he sat up and eyed the figure sitting on the far side of the room. Despite the level of alcohol in his blood, Dorian offered a saccharine smile to the man. “Magister Alexius! What a welcome surprise. What may I do for you?”

There was an amused twist to the man’s lips that Dorian wasn’t entirely sure what to make of, but in a few minutes time, he was being pushed out of the brothel and bundled into Alexius’ carriage, back on his way to the Gilded Quarters—and without a single Templar set upon his ass either.

“So what is a man of your talent doing in a place like that?” Alexius had asked, and Dorian smirked and looked out the window, watching as the magically lit streets passed them by. He licked his lips before leveling a sultry look at Alexius. “Shall I describe it to you in loving detail, or would you prefer a practical demonstration?”

He had expected Alexius to give him the same look that his father had—disgust and disappointment—or to take him up on the offer. After all, what else could a well-to-do magister want with him? Instead of doing either though, Alexius had just laughed and shaken his head good naturedly.

Strange, but Dorian had never felt so good after having been laughed at.

***

Where the Circles and his tutors had failed to challenge him, Alexius pushed him to his limits. On more nights than not, Dorian went to bed exhausted, both mentally and magically, but utterly delighted with his research after a hard day’s work, and given how tired he often was, he had less time to spend upon his vices. Though, Alexius never called them such, never thought of him negatively for his fondness of drink or the male form.

Sometimes, as sleep threatened to take him, Dorian wondered what set this magister apart from Halward—what made the two men see the world so differently. True, Alexius wasn’t his father and had no reason to worry about his _social obligations_ , as it were, but Alexius was a good man to his own son, despite his magical shortcomings.

Dorian liked Felix. He liked him a lot.

His friend reminded him of Renatus, and when his heart and body started to wonder about what it would be like to have _more_ , Dorian needed to only think of the boy he’d kissed so many years ago to set those thoughts aside. He treasured Felix too much to throw their friendship away—not to mention Alexius’ favor. He _needed_ the magister to stay afloat in Tevinter society.

Despite his accomplishments, his history continued to follow him like a dark cloud.

Four years under Alexius had seen Dorian complete his harrowing without any trouble and join the Minrathous Circle as an Enchanter. (Oh, his father had been so proud. Dorian could not remember him being happier since he’d first shown signs of having magic. Later, his mother would report that the man had _tears_ in his eyes—actual _tears_ —following the event.) He _behaved_ as it were, attending balls and participating in debates in the Lower Floor of the Magisterium, and after so many long years, he saw his father’s smile once more during a gala honoring the anniversary of Archon Radonis coming into power.

Their conversation was brief: a quick congratulations on passing the final hurdle to becoming a fully-fledged mage and for entering politics at long last. His father had pressed a hand to his shoulder right before he left, and Dorian thought of long fingers ruffling his hair.

He wondered where he had gone so wrong.

“Anyone would be proud to have a son like you,” Felix said when Halward had disappeared to another part of the ballroom, and Dorian had laughed and shaken his head. They were clothed in the finest robes that Tevinter could supply, and while they were dressed the part, Dorian could not help but think of how they were still so unlike the rest of the individuals in this room: one barely a mage and the other merely masquerading as a _normal_ part of society.

“He’ll find something new to hate me for soon enough,” he replied with a smirk, though he _wished_ that weren’t the case. “Pariah, remember?” For all that his father and mother had done to him (or rather, what they had _not_ ), Dorian still strove for their approval, still desired nothing more than for them to be _proud_ of their son. Still, he smiled because that was what was expected of him, and Dorian didn’t have the heart to wipe that delighted expression off of Felix’s face.

“So bitter, Dorian.”

“He simply cannot handle how _wonderful_ I am. Most people in this room can’t.” He winked at Felix. “Such a pity, but that’s quite all right. I’ll manage somehow.”

“You always have. Your resilience is admirable.” Felix looked at him as if he were a great man, and Dorian struggled sometimes with that expectation, as if he weren’t a walking disappointment to everyone in this room. He took a sip of his wine to mask the moment when doubt flashed in his eyes, but then Dorian was his usual self again: brilliant, witty, and charming to a fault.

“I try, Felix. I try.”

***

Two years—two years where Dorian thought, truly thought, that he could be the person his parents wanted him to be and that he could be happy, relatively speaking.

He was a powerful mage now, not a mere _apprentice_ to Alexius but a collaborator: his input was just as important in their research into time magic, and Dorian was taking firm strides in making a name for himself in the Magisterium as well. There were whispers (and letters from his father) that spoke of how he would one day become a great magister when he took Halward’s place. Dorian delighted in this, and he wondered, now, if his father (his parents) would finally see him as the son that they’d wanted all along.

Minus… that one little problem.

Now that his life was something that almost reflected normality, the matchmaking had begun in interest. Halward apparently thought that his son had finally shed enough of the mess known as his _childhood_ to be marketable, and along with carefully worded praise, he was always sure to remind Dorian of his obligations to the Pavus line with each of his letters. He was, after all, their one and only son, and both of his parents were expecting grandchildren—sooner rather than later.

Dorian had, of course, waved these not so subtle suggestions off, saying that he was _far too busy_ right now, and for the most part, he was. His career as researcher and politician were just taking off, and in his spare time… Well. There was Rilienus.

He had never been in love before and knew it was a folly to think that that was what was happening here, but sometimes, when he was in bed with Rilienus’ arm draped over his middle and his soft breath against the back of his neck, Dorian wondered if _this_ was what it felt like.

If nothing else, this was more than a simple fling—it had to be. It wasn’t a matter of bedding each other multiple times: it was the fact that their trysts didn’t end with one of them leaving in the middle of the night. They woke with their limbs tangled and shared sleepy kisses in the morning, and when Rilienus told him that he was exquisite, Dorian _almost_ believed him—he _wanted_ to believe him.

It was dangerous, this thing between them, but he couldn’t help himself. Dorian _liked_ what they had and was _so close_ to asking for more. Tevinter would never accept them, but Rilienus wasn’t bound to his family like Dorian was. He was the third child with no chance of claiming a seat in the Magisterium on his own, so Dorian wondered what would happen if he suggested that they flee to Nevarra or Rivain—if they fled this place that looked down upon their choices.

Each time the thought bubbled close to the surface of his thoughts, though, Dorian reminded himself of his own obligations—of the collar and leash that he wore as scion of House Pavus. So, he kept his mouth shut and tried to think of how he could appease his parents without spending the remainder of his life screaming on the inside. (A solution never presented itself, but Dorian tried. Oh, he tried.)

All the same, he entertained the thought of being _happy_ with someone, let himself dream until the world started to crumble around him.

It began with a simple letter from Alexius, and in it, with ink spatters and what he suspected were dried tears, his mentor shared the news that Lady Livia had been killed in a darkspawn attack on their way back from Val Royeaux and that Felix had been infected with the Blight. Stuck in Val Dorma until Felix stabilized, Alexius could not say how long they would be before returning to Minrathous, but he had strict instructions for Dorian: continue the research into time magic.

Numb with shock, Dorian had done just that.

Eating little and subsisting almost entirely on nothing but wine, he worked without rest until he finally succumbed to slumber at his desk. When he woke, it was to Alexius gently shaking his shoulder. The man looked drawn and pale, and he had said nothing in response to Dorian’s attempt at condolences. Alexius had simply gone to his shelf, found two tomes, and then sank into his chair without a word.

Nothing between them would ever be the same again; it was as if Alexius was an entirely different man. It did not matter if Felix still lived and breathed now, and it did not matter if his son had apparently come to terms with his eventual demise. He smiled when he spoke, and Dorian’s heart broke at the thought of losing his one true friend. He understood all too well Alexius’ quest to find a cure, to _turn back time_ before he had lost everything.

As they pushed the boundaries of magic, however, it became all too clear that this path could only lead to ruin, and Dorian balked at continuing. They bickered and argued; they shouted in their laboratory where once they had never raised their voices at each other. Felix would always come to intervene, but as the months dragged on, Dorian could take it no longer.

Two years passed. Alexius, the man he had admired for so long and seemed so much more like a father than Halward ever had, had changed. He was mad, and Dorian would not contribute his abilities and intellect to this pursuit of ripping the very fabric of time. Felix, bless his heart, had seen him off with another bright smile and held him in his arms as Dorian remembered what it felt like to have tears sting his eyes.

He fled to Rilineus’ side, and the man greeted him with a smile and embrace that only served to remind Dorian of Felix.

Dorian thought that he could find solace once more, but on his first trip back to Qarinus in years, the short stay became an indefinite one. There was a woman—another Livia, and this one nowhere near as endeared to Dorian as the Lady Alexius—waiting for him, and under Halward’s watchful eye, he was to court her.

Letters had not been enough to sway Dorian to take a bride, so his parents had resorted to this—an extended stay by a woman of their choosing. Nerves already frayed and mood dark, Dorian lashed out, swearing up and down that he would not have her—that he had another already.

It was a lie. For all he knew, Rilineus thought of him as nothing more than a passing pleasure like all the men before him. Dorian didn’t know how to tell the difference, and while he wished he’d asked before he had set off for Qarinus, he also knew that he’d never have to courage to actually go through with the question.

But he would not show weakness in front of his parents. Not this time.

When he was met with such a look from his father that it sent chills down his spine, he kept his chin lifted and eyes defiant, as he had so many years ago. His mother tutted quietly from the sidelines before turning on her heel, clearly fed up with his behavior, and for the once, his father followed after her, leaving him alone with Livia—Livia who sniffed at him and left to return to her quarters.

Dorian continued to exchange letters with Rilineus while he remained in Qarinus, and still, he could not tell what his relationship to the man was. He swore that he was seeing affection in those carefully penned words, but then the letters stopped coming. A week, a month—and Dorian wondered if Rilineus had finally tired of him.

So he drank and he took pleasure wherever he could find it, drowning himself in his vices once more.

When he at last returned to Minrathous, Dorian, in a drunken stupor, went to seek Rilineus out—to demand answers and to know why the letters had ceased. He wanted to yell at him, to shake him; he wanted to hold him and kiss him and to feel the weight of his body pressing him into the bed.

The elven servant who opened the door gave him a dark look when he came calling. He looked Dorian up and down, as if he were a mangy dog before shaking his head. “Have you not heard? Master Rilineus is no longer here.”

“No longer here? Has he moved?” Dorian had asked, disbelief causing his anger to flare. Was he so despicable that Rilineus felt the need to _move_ to escape him?

“He has _passed_ , Lord Pavus. Master Rilineus was assassinated a month and a half ago.” Again, the elf gave him a disapproving look, as if Dorian himself had done something wrong. “Do you really not know? The rumors are rife with your name and his—that his involvement with you was the cause of his death.” The elf waited for some sort of response, and when Dorian said and did nothing, he shut the door in his face.

Something inside of Dorian broke.

***

Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he was sober— _truly_ sober.

The world passed by in a blur, and he didn’t care. What did it matter anymore? The one man he looked up to had all but gone insane, the one man whom he could call friend was all but waiting for death, and the one man he… he thought fondly of was dead. His parents still thought of him as nothing more than a severe disappointment, and Livia was still living at the Pavus household, growing to hate him more and more with each passing day that he didn’t return.

Not that he _intended_ to return any day soon. No, Dorian spent his time going from one brothel to another these days, occasionally stopping by the residence of a noble because despite how low he’d sunk, there would still be men who wanted to claim a bit of Dorian Pavus as their own. True, he did have a pretty face, but when his thoughts were clear enough to think about it, he knew it was more likely that they enjoyed the thought of defiling the scion of House Pavus.

Once upon a time, Dorian would have hated the thought of sullying the Pavus name, but these days, there was very little that he wouldn’t give up to be rid of his family ties.

His father had given him the family amulet when he’d gone back to Qarinus, and while he once would have felt honored to wear the thing, it felt more like a noose than a pendant these days. It swung, heavy, from his neck as Lord Abraris? Almaris? _Abrexis_ , yes. It swung, heavy, from his neck as Lord _Abrexis_ fucked him from behind, wringing groans from Dorian as he struggled to keep his hands planted against the headboard.

The pounding of blood was loud in his ears, as was the sound of skin slapping against skin. From behind him, there was a bang and the sound of shouting, and Dorian growled his displeasure when Abrexis stopped moving and then _pulled out_ , of all things; he turned bloodshot eyes on his bedmate, only to see him being dragged off of the bed. Dorian sensed someone coming up beside him, but muddled as he was, it was far too late for him to cast anything before he was being clubbed over the head, the world going dark.

He woke, eventually, to the sight of an unfamiliar stone ceiling.

In fact, Dorian was now surrounded by stone. There was only one wall that wasn’t, and it was filled with a thick and heavy door; at the top of said door—and far above his ability to reach—were metal bars that let flickering torchlight into his cell. There were no windows to allow for natural light, and for all that Dorian knew, he could be stuck underground somewhere.

At least it wasn’t terribly cold.

There was a sluggishness to his body and mind that spoke of something in his bloodstream that _wasn’t_ alcohol—or perhaps it was a spell? When he eventually got out of the sad excuse for a bed, he found the heavy wooden door locked. Dorian tried calling out, tried to get someone— _anyone_ —to acknowledge his presence. When no one answered, he tried magic, but whatever had been done to him was making it so difficult for him to concentrate that he could barely manage a flicker of flame, let alone a proper spell that could get him out of this… _this prison_.

Time passed, and every few hours—or as well as he could measure hours, food and water would be shoved through a small panel in the door; every few days, there would even be fresh linens and clothes for him, as well as a stack of fresh towels and a small bucket of hot water—just enough that he could wipe himself down and little else.

For being a prisoner, he was being treated surprisingly well: he had food and some sense of cleanliness for himself and his living quarters, and as far as he could tell, no one was trying to _actively_ kill him. The haziness in his thoughts never cleared, as did the weakness of his body, but it never got any _worse_ either.

Stripped of all sense of time, Dorian had only the growth of his facial hair to make a vague guess as to how long it had been since he’d been captured. He wondered, absently, if his father would even bother sending anyone for him or if he’d pay for whatever ransom was on his head; perhaps he’d finally crossed the line of no return and his family would let him rot away in here. Dorian never lingered on that line of thought for long though, opting, instead, to sleep most of his time away; it was… easier.

And then one day, the door opened. Dorian cracked open his eyes and stared at the man in the doorway, only to discover that it was his father. Behind him, in a place he could not see from the small panel in the door, was a banner that bore the Pavus family crest.

“You kidnapped your own son and imprisoned him?” he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. Dorian pushed himself up into a seated position, and his father waved a finger; the heaviness in his thoughts and body increased, and then Dorian realized that it had been his father who had bespelled him into this state—that this was to keep him from leaving. He struggled to keep his eyes open against the weight of his eyelids: he had to know what was going on here.

“All you had to do was _pretend_ , Dorian,” his father said, his voice almost sad but mostly just disappointed. “Over and over, I beseeched you, but you wouldn’t _listen_. You caused more and more problems, and now I doubt the Pavus name will ever recover.

“You have _shamed_ the family.” That was the bite of hatred in Halward’s words now, obvious enough that even Dorian could pick up on it. Behind his father, there came the sounds of a struggle: muffled cries, the scuffling of feet, and the grunting of people trying to move an unwilling captive. Dorian tried to focus his attention on what was going on outside, but then his father had a hand around his arm and was hauling him to his feet; he stumbled, but it didn’t seem to matter to Halward, so long as he _kept moving_.

Halward shoved him to the center of the room and then onto his knees. Vision swirling, Dorian tried to figure out exactly where he was, and it took him a moment to realize that they were in the basement of their family estate—an area that Dorian had only visited once or twice in his entire life. This had been his father’s place for experimental magic, a place that he’d largely forbidden his son from entering.

With that knowledge in hand, perhaps there was a way for him to escape, even as things looked like they were about to get worse. Beside him, on the ground, was a woman, her arms and legs bound and a sack secured over her head. She was quiet but breathing noisily, as the men who had brought her in retreated from the room after a quick nod from his father.

“Your mother did not want to be here for this part, but rest assured that she’ll know of the results as soon as we’re done.”

It took a second for Dorian to sort through the words and piece everything together: it was the glint of a knife that finally tore through the fog of his thoughts, and his eyes widened in horror as he realized that his father intended to use blood magic—on _him_. “Father, you—”

The heaviness within him seemed to increase tenfold, and Dorian sagged until he was in no better shape than the woman beside him. His terror did nothing to rouse him or stir him into action, and when he finally came to again, he could feel warm blood seeping through his clothes, making his skin and hair tacky.

His father was standing a few feet away, his brow creased in concentration as sweat beaded on his forehead; even with the blood sacrifice and the number of empty lyrium bottles at his feet, Dorian could tell that the spell was taking a toll on his father—he could _feel_ it in the way clarity and strength were slowly but surely returning to him, as the spell his father had put him under steadily weakened.

Now presented with the full gravity of the situation, he weighed his options and decided that the best he could hope for was to escape here with his mind and body intact. After fending off his father, there would be no time to slip upstairs to gather his things—there would be no coming back now.

This was the end of his life as he knew it.

Gathering his magic, Dorian waited until the last possible minute to unleash a fireball at his father, who reacted by shielding himself and snarling at his son. His concentration fractured, and the aura of the unfinished spell dissipated into the air—lost and useless. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Dorian scrambled to his feet and toward the stairs.

“You still defy me?” Halward shouted, and Dorian threw up a shield around himself just in time to prevent the retaliatory strike against him. Still, the force and _anger_ of it shook him as he continued to flee, bracing himself against the stone wall. 

“You are no son of mine!”

The words struck him just as hard as a physical blow, and this time, Dorian barely blocked the blast of lightning that was hurled his way. Hurt and horrified, he shook his head and weaved a haste spell around himself. The world slowed around him, and then Dorian used fade step to flee, not stopping until his mana had been completely depleted. Trembling from overexertion, he eventually came to a stop in an empty field and sank to his knees.

He blamed his exhaustion when the tears came.

***

Dorian spent the better part of two years wandering the fringes of the Imperium. He would occasionally slip into a city, indulging a little in what could be offered, but for the most part, Dorian avoided the Altus circles of society that he once belonged to. Once or twice, he ventured outside the borders of Tevinter, and there, Dorian was met with disdain, if not outright hatred and fear.

Somehow, that still felt better than the bitter _disappointment_ that his father had expressed.

He wrote to Felix on occasion, but as he now wandered aimlessly through the Imperium, it was a rather one-sided form of communication. Still, Dorian took solace in writing, and the Alexius name still held enough weight and importance, despite the patriarch’s growing madness, that if he asked someone fresh from Minrathous, Dorian would still hear news about how his friend was doing. 

It was during one of these conversations with a humble peddler that Dorian first heard of the Venatori. He had snarled his disgust, which the man had shared, and when he’d been left alone with his thoughts once more, Dorian felt unrest settle in his chest.

He had come to hate Tevinter over the years. It was a different sort of hatred than that held by those from other parts of Thedas: his stemmed from seeing how far Tevinter had fallen—how corrupt and terrible they had become as a people. The creation of the Venatori was simply the newest in a long line of atrocities that Tevinter would inflict upon the rest of the world, and _something_ had to be done.

But what could one mage—disowned, disgraced, and penniless—do here? Nothing.

So, Dorian continued to wander, lost and purposeless. The days passed in a blur, and while he never again indulged like he had following the disappearance of Rilienus, Dorian still took solace in drink and sex, still lost himself in those pleasures when his coin allowed for it. He took odd jobs here and there, using his magic for the people out here on the outskirts—mundane things that hardly required a mage of his caliber; his father would have been offended that he even _used_ his abilities for these people.

Then, one day, a hole appeared in the sky.

It was just _there_ all of a sudden, with no explanation, but the color of it bode ill, even if it was still so far away. Tears in the Veil started to show up in the Tevinter countryside, bringing with them demons from the Fade, and Dorian took to defending the weak from them. It gave him a sense of purpose that he hadn’t felt in _years_ , and for the first time in a long time, Dorian felt _alive_.

The days passed with a little more meaning now, and Dorian began to feel more and more like his old self. His skill as a mage had always been great, but now, too, his prowess as a warrior increased—making him a fearsome thing to see on the field of battle.

When word of an individual who could actually _close_ these rifts eventually made its way to his part of Tevinter, Dorian knew in an instant that _that_ was where he needed to go. The Venatori, apparently, had a hand in this affair, and while that was reason enough for a sensible and reasonable Tevinter to fight, this was much more than having a chance to strike down those fanatics: this was about doing what was _right_.

As he penned another letter to Felix, Dorian wondered if, this time, his father would understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
